Chapter 7

The morning sun streamed through the windows of my office as I sat at my desk, buried in a mountain of paperwork. I grumbled to myself, my inner monologue a witty commentary on the endless tedium of bureaucracy.

"Ah, paperwork," I thought, my pen scratching against the surface of yet another form. "The bane of every private investigator's existence. If I had wanted to spend my days pushing papers, I would have become an accountant."

I was just about to reach for another stack of files when a strange ringtone suddenly pierced the air. It was a metallic, almost industrial sound that I didn't recognize. It took me a moment to realize that it was coming from the burner phone Novak had given me.

I quickly grabbed the phone and pressed it to my ear. "Novak," I said, my voice low and urgent. "What's going on?"

Her voice was tense, with an undercurrent of fear that I had never heard from her before. "Chandler," she said, her words clipped and precise. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. I've been getting some... comments from my coworkers. They know what I'm looking into, and they're not being subtle about warning me off."

I felt a chill run down my spine. If Novak's colleagues were already trying to intimidate her, then we were clearly on to something big. Something that someone didn't want us to uncover.

"What kind of comments?" I asked, my mind racing with possibilities.

"The kind that make it very clear that if I don't drop this investigation, there will be consequences," Novak replied, her voice tight with anger and frustration. "They're not even trying to be subtle about it, Chandler. They want me to know that they're watching me, and that they won't hesitate to take action if I don't back off."

I cursed under my breath, feeling a surge of protective rage wash over me. The thought of someone threatening Novak, of trying to intimidate her into silence... it made my blood boil.

"Novak," I said, my voice low and intense. "You need to be careful. If they're already coming after you, then there's no telling what they might do next."

"I know," she replied, her voice softening slightly. "And I need you to be careful too, Chandler. We're on to something big here, and I have a feeling that we're not the only ones who know it."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "I will," I promised. "And Novak... be safe. I can't do this without you."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and for a second, I thought she might have hung up. But then I heard her voice again, soft and filled with a kind of fierce determination.

"I will," she said. "And Chandler... we're going to nail these b******s. No matter what it takes."

With that, the line went dead, and I was left sitting in my office, my mind reeling with the implications of what Novak had just told me.

I stood up and walked over to the window, my eyes scanning the street below. At first, everything seemed normal - just the usual bustle of pedestrians and traffic, going about their daily lives.

But then I saw it. A non-descript sedan, parked across the street, with a single occupant sitting in the driver's seat. The man was wearing sunglasses and a hat pulled low over his face, but even from this distance, I could tell that he was watching my building with an intense, almost predatory focus.

I quickly grabbed my camera and zoomed in, snapping a few covert photos of the man's face. As I studied the images on the camera's screen, I felt a jolt of recognition. The man looked strikingly similar to Chad Bingham, but it was clear that he was a different person. A brother, perhaps? Or some other kind of close relative?

I knew that I couldn't let this opportunity pass me by. I had to confront this man, to find out who he was and what he wanted.

I tucked my camera into my pocket and strode out of my office, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. As I stepped out onto the street, I could feel the man's eyes on me, watching my every move.

But I didn't let it faze me. I raised my camera and started snapping pictures, making it clear that I had seen him and that I wasn't afraid to document his presence.

The man's eyes widened behind his sunglasses, and I could see a flicker of panic cross his face. He quickly started the car and peeled away from the curb, disappearing into the flow of traffic.

I lowered my camera, my mind racing with the implications of what had just happened. Whoever this man was, he was clearly connected to the underground world of the “vampire” parties, as I had started calling them in my head. And if he was keeping tabs on me, then that could only mean one thing.

We were getting close. And someone very powerful didn't want us to uncover the truth.

After my encounter with the mysterious man outside my office, I knew I needed to regroup and gather my thoughts. And there was only one person I trusted enough to share everything that had happened so far - my Aunt Helen.

As I drove through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Aunt Helen's neighborhood, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me. This was the place where I found a home after my parents were gone. It was the place where I had first learned the art of investigation, following Aunt Helen around as she worked on cases and soaking up every bit of knowledge she had to offer.

The neighborhood itself was a testament to Aunt Helen's success as a private investigator. The houses were large and well-maintained, with manicured lawns and pristine gardens that spoke of a kind of quiet prosperity. It was the kind of place where people valued their privacy and their security, where they were willing to pay top dollar for the best protection money could buy.

And Aunt Helen's house was no exception. As I pulled into the driveway, I couldn't help but marvel at the sight before me. The house was a grand, Victorian-style mansion, with a sweeping front porch and a turret that rose up from one corner like a sentinel keeping watch over the property. The windows were large and ornate, framed by intricate woodwork that spoke of a kind of craftsmanship that was rare these days.

But despite its grandeur, the house had a warmth and a welcoming feel to it that was impossible to miss. The front door was painted a cheerful red, and there were flowerpots overflowing with colorful blooms on either side of the porch stairs. It was the kind of place that felt like home, like a sanctuary from the chaos and the darkness of the outside world.

Aunt Helen was a force of nature, a woman who had seen it all and come out the other side stronger and wiser for it. She was in her early sixties, but she had the energy and vitality of someone half her age. Her face was lined with the kind of wrinkles that only come from a life well-lived, from countless hours spent chasing the truth and fighting for justice.

She had piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you, as if she could read your thoughts and uncover your deepest secrets with just a glance. Her hair was a silvery gray, cut short and practical, as if she didn't have time for the frivolities of fashion or style.

But despite her no-nonsense appearance, Aunt Helen had a warmth and a kindness to her that was impossible to miss. She had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the world, of listening to you with a kind of focused intensity that made you feel heard and understood.

She moved with a kind of grace and purpose, as if every step and every gesture was carefully considered and executed. She had a way of commanding a room without even trying, of drawing people to her with the sheer force of her personality and her intellect.

But beneath that tough exterior, I knew that Aunt Helen had a heart of gold. She had taken me under her wing when I was just a kid, teaching me everything she knew about investigation and deduction. She had been there for me through thick and thin, offering guidance and support whenever I needed it.

She was more than just my aunt. She was my mentor, my friend, and my confidante. She was the one person in the world who I knew I could always count on, no matter what.

I knocked on the door, and a moment later, Aunt Helen appeared, her face lined with the wisdom and experience of a lifetime spent chasing the truth. She greeted me with a warm smile and a hug, ushering me inside with a knowing look in her eye.

"I had a feeling you might be stopping by," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I could hear the gears turning in your head from across town."

I chuckled, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. Aunt Helen always had a way of putting me at ease, even in the midst of the most challenging cases.

I made my way in and just wandered through the house for awhile.  It had been some time since I had been home.  The entryway was grand and spacious, with a sweeping staircase that led up to the second floor and a chandelier that sparkled overhead. But despite its grandeur, the space felt inviting and welcoming, with plush rugs underfoot and a soft, golden light that seemed to emanate from every corner.

As I made my way deeper into the house, I couldn't help but marvel at the way Aunt Helen had managed to blend the old with the new. The living room was a perfect example of this, with its high ceilings and ornate fireplace that spoke of a bygone era, but with modern, comfortable furnishings that invited you to sit and stay awhile. The walls were adorned with photographs and artwork that told the story of Aunt Helen's life and career, from her early days as a fledgling investigator to her more recent triumphs and accolades.

The kitchen, where Aunt Helen and I had shared so many meals and conversations over the years, was a bright and airy space, with large windows that looked out over the backyard and a long, wooden table that could easily seat a dozen people. It was the kind of place where you could imagine family gatherings and holiday celebrations, where laughter and love seemed to be baked into the very walls.

When I reached the door to my old room, I paused for a moment, my hand resting on the doorknob. I wasn't sure what I would find on the other side, wasn't sure if Aunt Helen had kept it the same or if she had transformed it into something else entirely.

But as I pushed open the door and stepped inside, I felt a rush of emotion wash over me. 

The room was exactly as I remembered it, with the same old posters on the walls and the same worn, comfortable furniture that I had spent so many hours lounging on. The only difference was that now, instead of textbooks and case files scattered across the desk, there was a vase of fresh flowers and a framed photograph of me and Aunt Helen, taken on the day I had passed my exam for my P.I. License.

I made my way back to the kitchen, where the comforting scent of homemade lasagna wafted through the air. Aunt Helen gestured for me to take a seat at the table, and I did so gladly, my stomach rumbling in anticipation.

"You know the rules, Sammy," she said, using the nickname she had given me when I was just a kid. "Never discuss a case on an empty stomach. It clouds the mind and dulls the senses."

I nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was a tradition that we had started years ago, back when I was just starting out as a private investigator. Whenever I had a particularly challenging case, I would come to Aunt Helen's house, and we would discuss it over a hearty meal, the food fueling our minds as we worked through the clues and the evidence.

As we dug into the lasagna, I began to tell Aunt Helen everything that had happened so far - the missing women, the mysterious Angel, the underground vampire parties, and the strange, violet-eyed man who seemed to be at the center of it all.

Aunt Helen listened intently, her face a mask of concentration. She asked questions here and there, probing for details and pointing out connections that I might have missed. I could see the gears turning in her head, the decades of experience and instinct guiding her thoughts.  She did not seem to react to the idea that there may be people drinking the blood of young women.  Or the fact that the police appeared to be complicit. 

The only time I saw her façade crack was when I mentioned Angel's visit to my office, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition cross Aunt Helen's face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual inscrutable expression, but it was enough to make me wonder. Did Aunt Helen know something about Angel that she wasn't telling me?

I pressed her on it, but she simply shook her head, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Angel is a name I've heard before," she said, her voice cryptic. "But it's not my story to tell, Sammy. You'll have to figure that one out on your own."

We continued to talk as we ate, the conversation flowing easily between us. Aunt Helen pointed out some of the gaps in my investigation, suggesting avenues of inquiry that I hadn't considered before. Though many were out of reach without the cooperation of the police.  She also cautioned me about the dangers of getting too close to the case, of letting my emotions cloud my judgment.

"I know you want to save these women, Sammy," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "But you can't do that if you're dead. You need to be smart about this, and you need to trust your instincts. If something feels off, it probably is."

I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination wash over me. Aunt Helen was right. I needed to be careful, but I also needed to be bold. I couldn't let fear or doubt hold me back, not when there were lives on the line.

As the evening wore on, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. Talking with Aunt Helen always had a way of putting things in perspective, of reminding me why I had become a private investigator in the first place. It wasn't about the money or the recognition. It was about the truth, and about making sure that justice was served.

We were just finishing up our meal when my phone rang, the sound piercing the comfortable silence of the kitchen. I glanced at the screen, my heart skipping a beat when I saw the name that flashed across it.

I looked up at Aunt Helen, my eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation. She nodded, a knowing smile on her face.

"Go on, Sammy," she said, her voice soft but encouraging. "Answer it. And remember what I said. Trust your instincts, and be careful. I have a feeling that this is just the beginning."